


The self is not so weightless, nor whole and unbroken

by Illiterate_writter



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cooking Dinner, Gen, Mild Fluff, Nan Elmoth, hints to mild arguments, it can be a pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illiterate_writter/pseuds/Illiterate_writter
Summary: “Some things are more precious because they don't last long.”― Oscar WildeOr a dinner, a begetting day and many burns.
Relationships: Aredhel/Eöl (Tolkien)
Kudos: 6





	The self is not so weightless, nor whole and unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short exercise to improve my writing and as always constructive criticism is appreciated.
> 
> Thank you @potatoesanddreams for cheacking it

“Add one pinch of salt. Okay, I’ve got this.” Maeglin’s slender fingers pick up a dented tin jar that is practically empty, peering into it he decides that he should add all that is left.

It's Aredhel’s begetting day, Eol had sent Maeglin into the yellow and pastel baby blue kitchen to make her something special. So far it has led: to a burn; a sack of potatoes ripping, leading to potatoes rolling away; three plates breaking and vinegar spilling all over the floor. This last mishap had caused another smaller disaster; Maeglin had gone upstairs to search for shoes, when a pot boiled over, causing a large stain on the stove.

“Okay, done that and that” similar mutters are heard as the dark-haired ellon bustles around and sometimes the sound of an occasional shelf coming out of its place as Maeglin searches for an elusive ingredient also break the relative quite of the forest. A few minutes later, the red sauce is simmering. Feeling worn out, he decides to take a quick break before finishing the pasta.

Maeglin grabs some sketches of a timepiece and sits down to work further on them. The time passes quickly with Maeglin absorbed in making calculations and daydreaming about his first clock. Having completely forgotten the food, he gets jolted awake when he smells something burning.

“Oh, sh-inning stars of Varda.”

Skidding into the kitchen, he witnesses that the damage has been done, the sauce is burnt. In an attempt to fix the topping he adds more water to it and starts stirring. Then he adds more tomatoes and some more salt and again more water, but it is clear as daylight that the sauce is beyond help. Resigning himself to his fate, he takes the pan and adds the remains of the sauce to the compost heap.

Half an hour later, the sauce has been re-cooked more successfully and the pasta has been added to boiling water.  
Checking the time on the old worn-out clock, he utters another profanity and rushes to set the table. Eol and Aredhel have gone out to, to what should be a romantic evening, but of course, they are due back any minute.

Maeglin takes out what he hopes is the good tablecloth, he really couldn’t tell what the difference was, and puts it on the table. Then takes out the silverware, the knives are deadly sharp with gold roses carved in at the handle, the forks and spoons have the same design but with tulips and oaks etched on them. They were Maeglin’s first solo project, which also means he is incredibly proud of them.   
As he is taking out the good porcelain salad plates from the top shelf, it dawns on him that he has forgotten to make a salad. Hoping to cover his blunder, he puts them back in and prays that nobody will realize.

The table is finally set, he goes back into the kitchen and empties the pasta water, without needing to fetch any aloe vera (thank you very much), unlike most previous attempts. With the pasta and sauce having been mixed and transferred from a darkened copper pot to a fancy platter, all Maeglin has to do is wait for his parents to get back.   
Going outside, to get rid of some of the lingering stress of having to put a meal together, he cuts some flowers. Once back inside, he takes a small length of twine and places them next to his mother’s seat.  
As he waits, he curses the fact that social protocol dictates that ellons have to cook, after all both he and his father are crap at it, that lead to more often than not them eating burned or undercooked food.  
Soon enough, the door opens and his parents trip in laughing and smiling.

“Happy begetting day Mother!”

“Wow. Honey this is great.” His tall lady mother stoops down to kiss his cheeks, causing him to blush, “Thank you.”


End file.
